“Then travel safely.”

The man smiled bitterly at Eli’s farewell.

His hand, holding the reins, kept opening and closing.

It seemed that he too was reluctant to part.

“If I go now, when will we meet again?”

His clumsy Imanorian sounded.

Since yesterday, every word he spoke ended in a sigh.

Each sigh made Eli acutely aware of the distance between them, but somehow those sighs felt like a quiet bond between them – and that made the sadness a little easier to bear.

“Our paths will cross again.”

“I will do as you asked and attend the dawn prayers. I’ll pray to see you again soon.”

At Eli’s reply, the man gripped the reins tightly and spoke.

His determined face made her smile without meaning to.

“I promise.”

She reiterated.

“I’ll give it everything I have.”

The man who had dared to make such a vow smiled radiantly.

As if he had never smiled bitterly before, his smile was as bright as his golden hair.

That smile gave her a sudden impulse – to pull him close and carry him away with her words.

Her lover standing before her must have wanted the same.

But both Elisabeth and the man knew it.

“Then until we meet again.”

“Please be safe, my prince.”

They both knew that their farewell had to be quick.

The man turned his horse slowly. 

There were countless delegates to escort home and time was running out, but it was painfully clear how much he hated saying goodbye to Eli. 

Even when his horse had completely turned away from Isabelle, he was the only one still looking back at her. 

“You’re going to get hurt, Arnaud!”

When she called out in a voice tinged with laughter, he responded with another bright smile, nodded and then tugged on the reins as if to say that was enough.

The procession broke up as he rode on.

“Make way! Prince Arnaud is passing!”

As the man took the lead, the path she had been standing on was sealed off as the guards returned to their posts.

Eli watched the sealed procession for a long time.

Arnaud would be at the head of it.

Arnaud had been right.

If he left now, when would they ever see each other again?

She should’ve fallen for the Foreign Minister instead of the Prince of Châteaubienne.

With the thunder of hooves, the Châteaubienne delegation began to leave Imanoria behind.

“My lady, it’s time to go inside.”

As Eli stood there, staring endlessly at his retreating figure, her maid and companion, Alathea, gently urged her on.

Only at the sound of her name did Eli finally turn her horse.

Instead of the procession led by Arnaud, the spire of Zaphcada Castle came into view.

The towering statue of the Virgin – the one she had first shown him – was also visible.

One day she would see him again.

Together with him, she would see all of Imanoria again.

“Come on, let’s go back!”

Eli shouted with firm conviction to all her companions.

But she was the only one to turn her horse around completely.

The others barely tugged at the reins and looked back over their shoulders.

“Um, my lady…”

“What is it?”

Even Alathea hesitated.

Eli wondered if perhaps her father, Grand Duke Theodoros, had returned.

But the moment she turned back –

“Arnaud?”

In the distance, a white horse with gold reins galloped towards them at full speed.

It was Arnaud Alexandre de Jalbert’s beloved steed – the same one she had kissed on the muzzle as she followed him into the stables that afternoon.

Alathea, who recognised it a moment after Eli, asked with wide, startled eyes,

“Th-that’s the prince, isn’t it?”

“……”

She couldn’t find the words. 

Firstly, because she was stunned to see that it was really Arnaud. 

And secondly, because it was even more shocking to realise that he had broken away from the procession. 

Frozen, Eli could only watch as Arnaud rode towards her. 

He didn’t stop until his horse was nose to nose with hers. 

The sound of hooves faded in an instant. 

“Arnaud, what on earth are you doing…” 

Eli asked, her voice full of disbelief. 

But he didn’t answer. 

Instead he silenced her with a kiss. 

It was so sudden that she didn’t even have a chance to pull away. 

There was no urgency – no tongue – just the softness of his lips, lingering, unmistakably real. 

Then, pulling back, he spoke –

“I will come for you.” 

“…” 

“I swear I will take the throne – and I will come for you.” 

How could she refuse? 

Eli slowly lowered her head, then raised it in a silent nod. 

And a smile appeared on Arnaud’s face – warm and radiant, like the sunlight streaming through the windows of Zaphcada Castle. 

That smile of his… it always set her heart on fire. 

And now it gave her another reason to hold on. 

Even after Arnaud had turned and rode away, Eli stayed where she was, staring down the path he’d taken. 

Her guards called softly for her to return – but they didn’t press her. 

They understood. 

They knew.

Elisabeth stood there and looked down the road for a long time. 

She knew he would come back that way. 

Arnaud would come back for her. 

Of that she had no doubt. 

Her faith in him was quiet, steady and unshakable.

***

And so it was that today marked three years since Prince Arnaud Alexandre de Jalbert of Châteaubienne returned from Imanoria – three years since he had killed the former king.

It was also three years since his brother, Henri Philippe de Jalbert, defied blood ties, imprisoned him and seized the throne.

It had been three years since Princess Elisabeth of Imanoria – sold to Henri with the promise of military support for her collapsing homeland – had become his mistress, the Marquise de Châtour.

“They say he’s not even blond anymore. All his hair has turned white – he looks like a broken old man.”

“Apparently his madness worsened after he was imprisoned. I hear he chews angmadre leaves every day.”

“Good heavens, that poisonous stuff!”

The maids, chatting away as they fixed Elisabeth’s clothes, seemed completely unaware that their nails were catching and tearing at the threads of her veil.

But Elisabeth couldn’t bring herself to say a word.

They gossiped freely about Arnaud’s condition because their king, Henri, allowed it.

No – she wasn’t even Elisabeth anymore.

No one dared call her Eli.

Not when the King himself had given her a new name.

Isabelle Charlene de Jalbert.

It was a name she would live with forever.

With her identity as Elisabeth completely erased.

Forever, really.

“Lady Isabelle is Monsieur’s wife. Mind your manners.”

Even Alathea – who had followed her to Châteaubienne and was now nothing more than her maid – called her by the other name.

She knew there was nothing she could do about it, but a cold pain spread through her chest.

Her arms hanging awkwardly at her sides, Thea stepped closer and uttered a clumsy warning in broken Châteaubiennais.

“My, you’ve got a good touch.”

“For a fish out of water, you’d think she was born in Châteaubienne!”

The maids burst out laughing at the awkward phrasing.

One of the girls even made fun of her origins, calling her a “fish”, a reference to her being from Imanoria, a land that touched the sea.

Alathea was always the laughing stock.

Isabelle had warned her several times – that she had to learn the language of the Châteaubiennais if she didn’t want to be looked down upon.

But some things couldn’t be helped.

Her maid, who could handle a blade with ease, had no talent for language.

Seeing Alathea’s face flushed, on the verge of bursting, Isabelle sighed and brushed the maid’s hands from her shoulders.

“What good is fluency, really? If the head maid finds the pearls you’ve stuffed in your pocket, she’ll have every one of your mouths sewn shut.”

Unlike Alathea, the speaker’s tone was fluent and polished.

Only when she added that one of the girls had slipped some pearls into her clothes did the maids finally lower their heads.

“W-we take our leave.”

“We apologise for the offence.”

Of course, tomorrow they would be back to running their mouths as they pleased.

The harsher the slander about Arnaud, the better – at least within the walls of the Moerne Palace, where the king resided.

At least, that was the way it was in Moerne Palace, where the king resided.

As the maids filed out in a line, Alathea stood beside her, a dark expression on her face.

Isabelle turned to her maid and scolded her.

“I told you – you must master the language here if you want to come with me to Antmaren.”

“It’s humiliating.”

“I have endured it all. You should do the same.”

“But still…!”

Unlike Isabelle, Alathea answered only in Imanorian.

Isabelle deliberately hardened her expression and called her maid by name.

“Alathea, speak in Châteaubiennais.”

Alathea flinched slightly at the lowered, stern tone.

With a sigh, Isabelle continued.

“I’m meeting Arnaud today. I don’t want to make a fuss about you.”

“…”

This time Alathea said nothing.

Of course – she, more than anyone else, knew how deeply her mistress had longed for him during the three years she had spent as Henri’s mistress.

Isabelle, lifting the sleeve of her ceremonial gown slightly, spoke.

“It’s a wedding with my lover, isn’t it?”

Which meant that today was also the day that the king, in a show of generosity, brought out his own kin – buried deep in the south – after three years.

No one dared oppose the King’s absurd will to marry off a disgraced mistress and a traitorous relative.

With this announcement, Isabelle fully realised the extent of Arnaud’s disgrace.

To be married to a royal mistress…

How far had he fallen?

Isabelle was no different.

And it seemed that Thea resented that.

“Marrying a madman is absurd.”

“Marrying a royal mistress is equally absurd. I doubt they’ll be any more enthusiastic on that side.”

At her mistress’s reply, the maid pressed her lips together in a tight line.

But soon, in a voice full of doubt, she asked.

“That talk from earlier… do you think it’s true?”

Though the subject was vague, Isabelle understood well enough what Alathea meant – she was talking about Arnaud, who was said to have gone mad exactly six months after his imprisonment.

That was out of the question.

He could be impulsive, yes – but he was a smart man.

It might have been a childish kind of faith, but she just couldn’t accept that he had gone mad.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“But even if it’s true – do you still have the strength to love him?”

No sooner had Isabelle shaken her head than her maid pressed her with another question.

Could she love him even if he’d gone mad?

“…”

She could have shouted that it was out of place, that it was impertinent.

But Isabelle couldn’t react at all.

For it was the very outcome she had avoided, the one she had refused to face.

And so she could only turn her back on Alathea for daring to ask such a thing.

Knowing that this was her cue to leave, Thea bowed respectfully and then quietly closed the door behind her.

Now Isabelle was truly alone.

She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, then opened them again and lifted the small mirror in her hand, inspecting her face from every angle.

‘It’s ruined… my face.’

Her ash-grey hair braided into a single plait, her pale, delicate face, her small, plump lips tinted with crushed flower petals, and the white ceremonial robe embroidered with gold thread that hung at her neck–

She knew only too well how many wounds lay beneath that elaborate shell.

She was beautiful, but that was all.

Both her cheeks were red from the blows Henri had given her two days ago.

He had only struck where the redness would pass for blush – how cunning of him.

Her teeth clenched in anger, but she couldn’t show it.

This was the capital, Chamfera – even the stray dogs here were loyal to the king.

As she continued to stare into the mirror, she heard the rustle of cloth from outside.

It seemed the maids were returning.

The ceremony must be near.

Isabelle straightened quickly – but then…

“Arnaud… Arnaud…”

At the sound of his name, carried in on the rustling fabric, her eyes widened.

And it wasn’t just his name she heard.

Between those soft syllables – Arnaud – there were several sighs, breaths interspersed.

“Arnaud… more… mmph!”

The woman’s voice was abruptly cut off, followed by the wet sound of lips meeting and parting.

It was unmistakably a kiss.

Even as her body rose of its own accord, even as it carried her closer to the door, ready to burst out, Isabelle reached for the handle with trembling hands.

Creeeak!

The door made a hideous sound, but she didn’t stop.

‘No, it’s not what I think.’

She denied it again and again, hundreds of times, forcing her stiff neck to turn.

“Shh, stay still.”

And there – Isabelle came face to face with Arnaud. 

Arnaud, his lips on a woman whose dress hung half undone, looked at her with the same blue eyes – of the man she had once known.

Author’s Note:

Monsieur – the title given to the eldest brother of the King of France.